to sleep in--and not to forget the kitchen and the
garrets for the servants. What more do I want?"

His intolerable composure only added to his guest's irritability.

"A selfish way of putting it," Ovid broke out. "Have you nobody to think
of but yourself?"

"Nobody--I am happy to say."

"That's downright cynicism, Benjulia!"

The doctor reflected. "Is it?" he said. "Perhaps you may be right again.
I think it's only indifference, myself. Curiously enough my brother
looks at it from your point of view--he even used the same word that
you used just now. I suppose he found my cynicism beyond the reach of
reform. At any rate, he left off coming here. I got rid of _him_ on easy
terms. What do you say? That inhuman way of talking is unworthy of
me? Really I don't think so. I'm not a downright savage. It's only
indifference."

"Does your brother return your indifference? You must be a nice pair, if
he does!"

Benjulia seemed to find a certain dreary amusement in considering the
question that Ovid had proposed. He decided on doing justice to his
absent relative.

"My brother's intelligence is perhaps equal to such a small effort as
you suggest," he said. "He has just brains enough to keep himself out of
an asylum for idiots. Shall I tell you what he is in two words? A stupid
sensualist--that's what he is. I let his wife come here sometimes, and
cry. It doesn't trouble _me;_ and it seems to relieve _her._ More of my
indifference--eh? Well, I don't know. I gave her the change out of
the furniture-cheque, to buy a new bonnet with. You might call that
indifference, and you might be right once more. I don't care about
money. Will you have a drink? You see I can't move. Please ring for the
man."

Ovid refused the drink, and changed the subject. "Your servant is a
remarkably silent person," he said.

"That's his merit," Benjulia answered; "the women-servants have
quarrelled with every other man I've had. They can't quarrel with
this man. I have raised his wages in grateful acknowledgment of his
usefulness to me. I hate noise."

"Is that the reason why you don't keep a watch-dog?"

"I don't like dogs. They bark."

He had apparently some other disagreeable association with dogs, which
he was not disposed to communicate. His hollow eyes stared gloomily into
vacancy. Ovid's presence in the room seemed to have become, for the time
being, an impression erased from his mind. He recovered himself, with
the customary vehement